


darling, darling

by bluepeony



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Slow Dancing, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 18:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20912150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepeony/pseuds/bluepeony
Summary: "Because in truth, the thought of life without Eddie is somewhat unthinkable."In which Ben and Beverly get married, Richie is cynical, and Eddie just wants to slow dance.





	darling, darling

**Author's Note:**

> no major warnings, just references to alcohol

They pick ‘Stand By Me’ for their first dance – the John Lennon version – and if someone had asked Richie what he thought of the choice prior to the wedding he might have scoffed, or rolled his eyes, or said, “Straight people are so predictable – and by the way, Yoko broke The Beatles up.”

But no, yeah, okay, when Ben and Bev slow dance to ‘Stand By Me’, the John Lennon version, beneath the amber glow of their fairylight-strung marquee (straight out of Pinterest but really goddamned pretty) of course it’s perfect. Of course no one breathes a word. Of course Mike starts to cry.

“Mike, dude,” Richie mutters, slightly perturbed. “Get it together.”

It’s no doubt because he’s several whiskey sours deep (they all are; Ben’s speech was, naturally, of considerable length) but Mike very sweetly tells Richie it’s because he’s so happy to have friends to feel so happy _for_.

“Would you cry at _my _wedding?” Richie asks. Other people have floated over to the dance floor to join in, and it’s safe to speak at regular volume again.

“You know I’d be happy for you, man,” says Mike, which doesn’t really answer the question. “Why? Are you planning one?”

He isn’t. In truth, Richie has always insisted he feels the same way about weddings that he does any act of shameless self-congratulation. Baby showers. Engagement parties. He’s always thought there’s something a little warped about not only patting yourself on the back for completing a task which requires very little talent (pro-creation, buying a ring, putting up with someone else for extended periods of time), but demanding everyone else pat you on the back for it too. _And_ buying you a gift from your registry while they’re at it.

He’d written a joke to this effect for his most recent show. When Beverly rang to tell him that she and Ben were engaged, she’d added, only half playfully, “Of course, knowing how you _feel_ about weddings, if you didn’t want to _come_…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richie had said quickly, desperate not to disappoint her. “I’m thrilled for you guys.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

“It’s just – and I know it’s none of my business – but promise you won’t go all 'Say Yes to the Dress' with, like, a six thousand dollar wedding dress? I mean if you want to that’s obviously up to you, but I just would want to remind you how many captive elephants could be retired from the circus with several thousand dollars.”

Beverly had laughed at this. “I promise to think of the elephants and not buy a ridiculous, overpriced dress. And Richie? You’re right. Weddings are fucking stupid. I just really want one.”

And because she’s always been an ace at proving Richie wrong, the wedding Beverly plans somehow manages to be simultaneously beautiful and sensible. The wedding dress she’s wearing is the one that her grandmother wore in the ‘60s. Stan’s wife has made the three-tier wedding cake. There’s no gift registry. No bridesmaids, no best man. Instead of toasting the couple with champagne, everyone does a shot of Sambuca, and okay, fine, Richie gets it. Not all couples, even ones with Pinterest marquees and fairy lights, get married just to see what everyone else has to say about it. All night, Ben and Bev have been looking at each other like – and it’s a tired cliché, but – like they’re the only two people in the room. Like everything else is just background noise.

“Isn’t this insane?”

Eddie appears out of nowhere, dopily affectionate, putting his arms round Richie’s neck from behind.

“I was watching their first dance,” he says, mouth very close to Richie’s ear, “and I had this flashback to Homecoming when Beverly got asked to the dance by… you remember?”

“Oh fuck, what was his name?” says Richie.

“Theo fucking –”

“Theodore Bielinski!”

“Theo fucking Bielinski, do you remember that asshole? And we were all so hurt that she chose to go with him instead of sitting on the bleachers with our sorry single asses.”

Richie reaches up to hold Eddie’s hand where it’s around him, squeezes it lightly, absent-mindedly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ben so heartbroken as he was watching Bev slow-dance to Alphaville with a guy who had a stick-and-poke Poison tattoo.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees gently, “but I guess he got over it, huh?”

He moves to sit in the empty seat beside Richie’s, and Richie knows what’s coming before it does.

“So are you gonna ask _me_ to dance?” says Eddie, and while Richie has been expecting the question, the odd phrasing of it – like a sixteen-year-old girl to her disinterested prom date – throws him a little.

“I’d love to,” he says, “but I’m in the middle of a really intense conversation with Mike.”

“Which Mike? The one dancing with Audra’s sister?”

Richie glances over his shoulder to find that, sure enough, Mike’s seat has been vacated, and the round table, scattered with half full glasses, is now empty bar Richie and Eddie, whose names sit side by side in swirly writing on white place cards.

Richie turns back to Eddie and smiles, apologetically.

“I don’t wanna dance, babe. I admit it, the Mike thing was a ruse, a desperate ploy, but I don’t wanna dance.”

“You’re _extremely_ predictable, do you know that?”

“Then why ask the question?”

“Because, I don’t know, Rich, I thought you might think I look cute in my new Burberry suit, and I was giving you an excuse to touch my ass in public in a way that other people might not deem socially unacceptable?”

“I’m glad you were only thinking of me, Eds.”

“Always.”

Eddie’s drunk, of course, but it’s not just that. For someone so hot-headed he’s always been weirdly sentimental when it comes to romance. He likes slow-dancing. Hand-holding. Lying leg-over-leg in the bath. If Richie ever suggested the two of them ought to slap a padlock on to a bridge together, Eddie would fall to pieces.

“Come on,” he says, “just once? Before the music gets stupid and they start playing the fucking Macarena.”

And just like the shared baths Richie is really too tall for, he doesn’t resist when Eddie pulls him gently to his feet and leads him to the middle of the marquee where couples are locked in slow-swaying embraces, including Bill and Audra, to whom Richie throws a quick, “His idea. I didn’t wanna do this,” as they pass.

They find a spot and Richie stands, Eddie’s wonderful face close to his, and Eddie puts his arms around Richie’s neck. It’s with some relief that Richie notes the song playing over the speakers calls for little more than a light sway, which is about all he’s capable of.

“So when can the ass-touching start?” he asks.

“That was just a trick to get you up here. Your hands go any lower and you’re getting a goddamned slap, Tozier,” says Eddie, but he’s too tipsy to to keep a straight face and laughs before he’s finished speaking.

Richie smiles at him, unable to keep it from his face, then glances down between them to where the toes of their shoes are nearly touching.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a little out of the blue. Not quite sure what he means by the question, knowing Eddie will answer regardless.

“I’m okay,” says Eddie, apparently unperturbed. “Are you okay?”

“I think so. Weddings always makes me feel a little weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They’re just kind of strange. Aren’t they?”

“Strange how?”

“Strange like how… I don’t know, Bev’s just over there jiving with Ben’s uncle. I mean, when the fuck else would _that_ ever happen? A birthday party? Yom Kippur?

Eddie laughs. His arms around Richie’s neck tighten a little as he pulls in closer.

“Don’t think about it so much,” he murmurs. “Just enjoy yourself.”

“Sorry. I guess I’m just used to associating weddings with negative things. Like divorce.”

Eddie rests his head against Richie’s shoulder and Richie feels him huff out another laugh. “You’re such a fucking cynic.”

Later, when Eddie’s agreed that they can stop and sit back down, they grab another drink and settle back at their table, picking at the scattered candy favours everyone else has left.

“I guess,” says Eddie, unwrapping a chocolate coin, “there’s no point asking if you’d ever consider the idea of us getting married?”

It isn’t like they haven’t spoken about this before. Richie can recall more than one late-night conversation, whispered in the dark, in bed, foreheads kissing: “I know we aren’t going to get married _but_ what would you want the first song to be if we did?” “I know we aren’t gonna be one of those couples that caves and gets married _but_ where do you stand on fruit cake for weddings? It's fucked, right?” “I know we’re not nearly boring enough to get married _but_ would you be able to pick a best man, or would you just have groomsmen? Because you know how jealous Stan can get.”

“Is it a life transition we really need?” says Richie. “You already grew a beard. I don’t know how much more change I can take.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t really _change_ anything though, would it?” says Eddie. “It's not like you become a different person.”

“Then why do people do it?”

“I don’t know. Better tax returns?”

Simultaneously, they look to the head of the room where Ben and Bev are taking pictures with his family. Bev’s smile is so wide it looks like it could split her face any second. She keeps putting her hand over her face, over her eyes, like even looking at the room around her would overwhelm her.

Richie doesn’t know how to feel that way, has never felt that way, and it’s not for lack of love. Because in truth, the thought of life without Eddie is somewhat unthinkable. He can’t, and doesn’t want to, imagine a future without him in it. It’s just that he doesn’t want the present to change either. Their cluttered townhouse, their shared movie collection, shared mugs, shared clothes, shared mail, shared goddamned baths. Their fridge magnets. The cat that visits in the morning that Eddie refuses to name, like he’s Holly Golightly, friend to the animals. Richie doesn’t want these things to alter. Their late evenings and small liquor cabinet they only seem to dig into on weeknights; their almost ritualistic habit of waking up and having sex at four or five in the morning. Richie sleeping in while Eddie gets up early. Brushing their teeth at the same time. Laughing at the same stupid shit, competing over the same TV quiz shows. Bickering daily, rarely ever arguing. Eddie reading battered paperbacks on the sofa with his feet in Richie’s lap.

“Can I be real for a second?” Richie says suddenly. “I don’t want things to change. Even if a wedding _doesn't_ change much. It must change _something_, that's why so many fuckers get divorced.”

“Well...”

“I really, really love you, you know. I don’t always show it enough, I know that. But I do.” He pauses. “Love you, I mean.”

Eddie looks at him for a moment, unaccustomed to professions of love from Richie, who’s never been particularly demonstrative when it comes to romance.

“I know that, idiot,” he says, with a little hiccough. “Why should things have to change? We’re the picture of domestic bliss, you and me. Look, if it helps, _I_ don't want to get married either.”

Richie lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. “You don't?”

“We don't have to prove shit to anyone. Richie...” Eddie shifts to look at him fully, and though he is a little drunk, there's an earnestness in his eyes which suggests he means it. He closes the small gap between them with a tug of Richie's tie, pulling him in for a kiss, brief and reassuring. “I'm perfectly happy living in sin with you. So please stop stressing about it, because it's been fucking _buzzing_ off you ever since we got the invite.”

“You brought it up!”

“Well, I wanted you to talk about it. I don't want to change anything, I just want you to be open with me. And maybe dance with me more when I'm drunk.”

“I can do _one_ of those things,” says Richie, not missing the way Eddie is still holding on to the end of his tie, keeping him close. “Let's just say I'll work on the other.”

“I can live with that, I've been sitting out dances with you since high school. You're lucky I'm so patient.”

And Richie looks at him, and at the way Eddie hangs on to him, and thinks, yes, that's exactly it. He is lucky. He is.


End file.
